Next week is Spring Break, and Michael and I were planning to fly cross-country with our infant — ostensibly so I could present a paper at a conference, but mainly so we could go play with my adorable nephews, who live in DC.
This seemed like a perfect plan back when I bought the plane tickets in January; I was still safely ensconced in the cocoon of maternity leave, cushioned from the grind of working fulltime, and March seemed impossibly far away. Julian would be over three months old then, I thought; my God, that’s practically an adolescent. He would be a totally different baby. He would have bloomed into one of those measured and self-reliant infants (those exist, right?) who nap regularly for, I don’t know, three hours or so at a time, who entertain themselves contentedly on a playmat for long stretches, smiling at Mama and Daddy as they pass through the room in the midst of their domestic productivity. (Clothes? Washed! Dishes? Washed! Body? Washed! Breakfast? Eaten! House? Pristine!)
And OF COURSE we would, by that advanced infant age, SURELY have attained the ultimate holy grail of parenting: a baby who sleeps through the night.
Or so went my thought train of self-deception, back in January.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, March has arrived, and now I realize that I was completely off my tits in Delusion Land. (It’s sort of like Candy Land, but instead of gumdrops, there are just endless little squares of disappointment.)
Today, I canceled our airline reservations. And here’s why. It’s all because of my imagination. My overactive, take-no-prisoners imagination, which convinced me that flying cross-country with a three month-old, or at least with MY three month-old would look something like this….
[Cue dream sequence music.]
We leave for the airport at 4:30 AM, which isn’t really a big deal, since I am pretty much always awake at that hour, because, yes, our baby does NOT sleep through the night. Not even close. In fact, he has embraced a radical, subversive baby lifestyle known as reverse cycling, where he actually eats MORE frequently at night than he does during the day. Every night is like cuddling up to an open bar for him, a bar that never closes and sleepily rolls over to feed him anytime he makes a squawk, which he does about every two to three hours, all night long.
They say babies with working moms can fall into this nighttime guzzling habit, but my baby must come by it naturally, because he started doing it before I actually went back to work. No doubt he’ll grow into one of those hungry night owl adults, the ones who shuffle to the fridge at 2 AM, half-asleep, and eat all the leftover pizza.
But I digress. Back to my airplane scenario. So we get to the airport, and I’m feeling confident and brave, like one of those spandex moms I see running past my house with tight butts and nice jogging strollers – those moms who just exude an air of why yes, I have my shit together! Smiley face. I feel like one of those moms upon arriving at the airport, because my baby has slept peacefully in the car and is now gurgling happily in the Ergo, because we’re one of those weird attachment parenting couples who don’t actually use a stroller.
And right around the time we’re about halfway through that long morning-flight security line, baby derails. He starts fussing, refusing to be in the Ergo any longer, so Michael pulls him out, and we notice his diaper is soaked, but we’re about to go through security, so we just hold the pee-drenched baby and wrestle our belongings through the checkpoint, glancing anxiously at the clock because everything is taking way longer that we thought it would.
We get through, and I rush to the bathroom to change him (and it has to be me, because there are never any diaper changing stations in the men’s restroom, as if men lack opposable thumbs or something), but of course there’s ANOTHER long line, so by the time I’ve changed him — and he is screaming now, because he needs another nap — we’ve missed the special people-with-young-families boarding time, so we end up getting seats right by the toilets, where there will be an endless stream of cranky people who need to pee (or worse) cycling noisily through during the entire flight.
And even though we try to get a row of seats to ourselves, the flight is full, so we have a hapless stranger with us, so close our elbows touch — a scowling man who has never had children and who, in fact, was mistreated by a baby once and now despises them beyond reason and thinks there should be laws against bringing those fleshy sacks of poop and screams on airplanes. He does not say any of this, but I can read it in his hardened eyes. He hates us. (Or, if we don’t get this guy, we might get one of those awful racist drunk people who ACTUALLY SLAP BABIES ON PLANES, because those people do exist.)
Julian will begin crying as the plane takes off because he’s overtired, hungry, and afraid the plane is going to crash (infants have a sense of their own mortality by three months, right?). I try to fix the hungry part by whipping out a boob in front of what is basically a flying metal tube packed with a hundred strangers, but Julian is too hysterical to eat. This happens when the tiredness and hunger coincide, and I can usually only break the feedback loop by standing up, taking my shirt off entirely, holding him sideways across my body, and swinging him side to side while nursing him at the same time. As you can imagine, this is a difficult maneuver to do on an airplane.
And of course there is turbulence. Of course the fasten seat belt sign stays permanently lit. Of course there is an adolescent boy sitting across the aisle from us whose father glares threats at me every time I try to breastfeed my screaming baby, as if I’m doing some sort of strip tease, because many people still can’t handle that fact that breasts are not just “fun bags” for dudes; they exist to feed babies. Of course the plane starts to descend just as we’ve calmed Julian, who starts to scream again at the change in air pressure. And of course, as we land, it occurs to me that the journey is not even half over, because we have a layover, and then another long flight to take us the rest of the way across America, during which we will experience more screaming, more murderous glares, an epic diaper blowout or two, and, I don’t know, maybe the plane will crash.
I could go on, but you get the idea. This nightmarish scenario has been on repeat in my mind, driving me to ultimately pull the plug on the whole trip. But now I’m wondering if I just chickened out, if I let myself succumb too easily to New Mom Anxiety. I think about those spandex moms with the tight butts who run marathons and have their own successful at-home businesses. They would have stuck it out.
So, readers, tell me: is traveling with a young infant as nightmarish as I imagine? Anyone have any good stories to share? I welcome feedback from any parents out there, tight butts or otherwise.
Every night between 8 and 9 PM, my baby screams like an adolescent girl at a 1960s Beatles concert. Or like he’s being dipped in acid – but that’s sort of a grim image. You could actually set your watch to it; I have a remarkably punctual baby.
The other night, I was finishing up a diaper change when my mom called. As we chatted, Julian happily pedaled his legs and cooed, even smiling a few of his new, tentative smiles up at me – he likes being in the cushy elevated cradle of his changing table. I glanced at the clock (7:58) and told my mom that Julian’s “fussy time” (what a pleasant euphemism) was about to start. And then, right on cue, my baby went from doing contended little air aerobics to full on eyes-shut, head-thrown-back screaming. “Well, it’s beginning,” I said to my mom, and hung up.
So, we were both in a sorry state that morning. Luckily, I had some leftover Vicodin from my hospital stay, so I took one and then camped out in the rocking chair all morning while Julian took a three-hour nap on my belly. I didn’t eat until 2 PM that day.